


How Can You Live With Yourself?

by sixteenpsyche



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Cheating, Dirty Talk, Hate Sex, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Rough Oral Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26945125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixteenpsyche/pseuds/sixteenpsyche
Summary: Don't you just hate it when your dad's new boyfriend is a total thottie?Minho is 25, living with his mother, and spending most of his time resenting his newly-out father and his father's ridiculously hot 23 year old boyfriend. We all know how this ends.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 7
Kudos: 225





	How Can You Live With Yourself?

**Author's Note:**

> To be clear, this isn't a stepdad/stepson thing. Jisung and Minho's father are just dating. This still is not a ... morally ideal situation. I tried my best to be very clear there are zero incest implications, but if the premise makes you uncomfortable, please don't trigger yourself.

What pisses Minho off is that, functionally, they are the same age. 

No—it is worse than that because, at 23, he is younger than Minho. That useless twink, that wanna-be gold digging trophy wife, thinks he can replace Minho’s mother, an actual saint? 

Minho wonders where his father even found the trashy little bitch. He has to admit Jisung is beautiful, and the sex is probably good, but the guy is so irritating that it cannot possibly be worth it. (Fuck. Why is he thinking about that?)

But this is what his life has become—feeling embittered toward his feckless, irresponsible father and obsessively thinking about his father’s boyfriend. As if it isn’t infuriating enough that the man suddenly decided to come out even though, frankly, it would have been better if he just kept it bottled up as he had apparently been doing for decades. And, as if to add insult to injury, his father spent years pushing Minho to be more manly, and flipped out when he found Minho in the bedroom with a male friend and the door closed. They weren’t even doing anything, but the man absolutely lost his mind. 

When Minho reminds his mother of this borderline-traumatic childhood memory, she empathizes with him—and with her ex-husband. “Can you imagine the internalized shame and hatred he must have been feeling?” she suggests, gently, because she really is a saint. “It wasn’t right, but of course he didn’t want his son to have to go through what he himself was internally experiencing.” 

Minho sucks his teeth. “He’s an asshole,” he replies, as cooly as he can, which is not vey cooly at all, because he is white hot with rage at the hypocrisy. His mother’s sharp gaze tells him more than her words ever could—to not speak about his father that way, to be kinder, to practice forgiveness and move on.  
Not likely. 

Still, he changes the subject for her sake, to less contentious matters. Namely, convincing her to accept “rent” in exchange for letting him move back home after a spectacularly failed stint at an expensive, prestigious, private and ludicrously expensive liberal arts to study dance. This was after transferring from a public college where he languished for five years, directionless. He’s no trust fund baby; his parents do not have a lot of money, and he knows they do not approve of him professionally pursuing a career in the arts after the sacrifices they made to immigrate from Korea to America. He has to make amends for wasting their—her—time and money. But she is too proud, and perhaps too lonely, to allow her son to pay for the privilege of living with her. Although she does admit, “You could help out around the house more. Your laundry, for example …” He nods and promises to do better. He half-way keeps that promise, even. 

— 

A family dinner with the four of them was an absolutely unhinged idea from conception. Minho has less than nothing to say to Jisung, but his mother begged him, and his father is still putting on his kicked puppy act. The never-ending apology tour from his father has become so tiresome, but his filial piety is unfortunately so strong that he feels too guilty to ignore him entirely. So he agrees to the dinner through gritted teeth.

Jisung cooked, apparently, and none of it is as good as his what his mother makes. It is a poor imitation of real Korean home-cooking, like the generic store brand of a name brand cereal. Cheap. Just like Jisung himself. 

Minho’s nostrils flare involuntarily every time Jisung speaks up, which is pretty often. He is not a shy man, and clearly has few if any compunctions about coming into Minho’s family and home-wrecking it. Minho is totally silent until his mother kicks him under the table, and he realizes it has been an hour of stony-faced disapproval on his part. After exhaling the most outlandishly rude sigh he can muster, he asks a question. “What is it, exactly, that you do, Jisung ssi?” 

Calling him that is so petty, on his part. “Mr. Jisung.” So stupid. Minho barely speaks Korean except to his parents, but if he must adopt a Korean honorific it is going to be as distant and formal as possible. He thought about calling him by the wrong name, Jimin or something, but he knows that would just upset his parents and start a fight, and it isn’t worth it for a moment’s pleasure. 

Anyway. 

Jisung smiles at him, but it is a polite, reserved smile, the kind you give a teller at a bank. What a bitch. What a shitty little act. “Right now, I sing a little—in clubs, at indie music festivals—and sometimes fill in as a studio musician for backup vocals. But I have a modest following on Korean social media, so I’m thinking about making my own music and posting it.” He takes a sip of soju. “You know, not for the money or recognition, but because I’m passionate about it.” 

Minho snorts and mumbles, “Clearly not for the money, you’ve already got my father for that.” He literally, physically cannot help himself. He can feel the tension in the room after he says it. Except, oddly, from Jisung, who continues to placidly smile at him. He regrets saying it, because he is not exactly confrontational and hates awkwardness. To everyone’s surprise and, likely relief, Jisung speaks up. “I know you don’t like me, Minho. I don’t blame you, even. But I want to assure you I am not trying to replace your mom. I respect her too much, and I could never live up to her. But your father and I are in love. I’m not using him for his money; we live humbly. I know this might be hard for you to understand because I am so young, but you cannot help who you fall in love with.” He finishes with a different smile. More difficult to parse. 

Minho’s ears burn. “I think we’re done here. I’m tired, I’m going to head back home.” He looks at his mother, “Do you want to come, mom?” She won’t meet his eyes when she nods.  
He clears the table and washes the dishes while everyone sits at the dinner table in silence. He hopes they do not hear the sniffles that escape him as he wipes hot tears away. 

—

The next time Minho sees Jisung they are alone, together. He is still not certain how it happened, but it has been months since the disastrous dinner, and things have normalized. He feigns cordiality toward his father and his father’s boyfriend, to the point where it has clearly been mistaken for actual amicability. That, at least, is the only way he can explain how he ended up preparing Christmas decorations in his mother’s home with Jisung. And it is not just his mother’s home, it is their family home, where he grew up. It is big and empty and haunted with memories Minho would rather forget—both happy and less happy. So, he has to admit, it is probably for the best to put a brave face on and dress the house in the superficial trappings of holiday joy and warmth. He knows his mother will appreciate it, at least.

As for Jisung, Minho finds that they are able to make polite and slightly tedious conversation about music and dance. Minho has been drinking mulled wine and Jisung had a pint of hard cider which has clearly helped both of them cope with the strangeness of the situation. Perhaps, even, it has put Minho too much at ease. He finds himself gazing at Jisung when the other isn’t looking, nearly-admiring the way the objectively stupid, ugly Christmas jumper hugs his body, highlighting his tiny waist. And Jisung’s face is so ridiculously pretty. Big, almond-shaped eyes, a perfectly-proportional and straight nose, and a sweet little bunny mouth. Totally the kind of face Minho would go for. He has looked at that face plenty, almost studied it, because he’s clearly a masochist and secretly follows Jisung’s Instagram page. At least once a week Jisung posts a selfie, perhaps even a sponsored post, and Minho has found himself staring for minutes at a time, for a variety of reasons. 

He can tell Jisung finds himself to be exceptionally pretty. So, so vain. Probably not so pretty without makeup, though. And probably always wanted to marry up and sit at home on his ass, Minho thinks, unkindly, and that thought excites him somehow. He stops hanging tinsel and sits on the sofa, sipping another glass of wine and now staring openly at Jisung. 

Jisung stops decorating, too, and meets Minho’s gaze. The moment, totally silent, is loaded with potential, but Minho doesn’t fully understand what that potential is. Jisung blinks at him. “Don’t drink too much. I don’t want you to fall off the ladder when we decorate the outside.” His tone betrays no emotion—it sounds like he does not care one way or the other if Minho drunkenly falls off the roof. “Siri, turn the music off,” Minho snaps, surprising himself. God, how irritating that Christmas drivel can be. Especially with Jisung singing along. Then, unbidden, “Do you really love my dad?”  
Jisung shifts from foot to foot. “I don’t know, maybe. I like him a lot. He proposed, you know, and I said no. Well, I said not yet. I want to be sure. I don’t want to break his heart.”

Minho’s face heats. “You said you loved him. At that dinner.” Jisung casts his gaze down. It is the first time Minho has seen him show any shame. He does not immediately respond, so Minho feels emboldened. “Why are you even with him? What do you have in common? He’s a fucking accountant and you’re a D-list Korean Instagram influencer.” “You don’t have to be so cruel,” Jisung mumbles, lamely. Minho tuts. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”Jisung looks back up him, pretty mouth set into a hard line. “Your father treats me well. I’ve never known anyone like him. He’s so sweet and tender, he—“ Minho cuts him off. 

“Liar. My father is an asshole. He treated me like shit because he thought I was gay, even before I knew what that meant. He took his misery out on my mother. He,” he can feels those same hot tears in his eyes and he stifles a scream of frustration. Jisung approaches him, slowly, and perches on the sofa next to him. He puts a hand on Minho’s leg and responds, softly, “I know. He feels sorry for it. He hates that he did that to you and your mother. But … he loves you, and he is so grateful for their relationship because of you. You’re his heart, and he is so proud of you.” 

It seems like an empty platitude, the way Jisung says it, even though Minho knows it to be true. That desire to scream is still there when he says, eerily controlled, “You don’t know anything about him, or my mother, or me. You’re just a home-wrecking, gold-digging, lazy grifter who wants a green card so you’re not sent back to Korea where you probably led a miserable, pathetic, closeted little life. Well, congratulations. You found a rube in my father. You—“ this time, it is Jisung who cuts Minho off, but not with his words. With a slap across the mouth that has such force behind it it makes Minho’s ears ring. 

“Shut up,” Jisung snarls. “Shut up, you horrible, spoiled brat. Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Minho exhales. “Hit me again,” he begins, with every intention of finishing that sentence by saying ‘and you’ll regret it,” but for some reason he stops short. Jisung looks surprised, and something else. His eyes are dark and unreadable. 

But his words are much less vague. “You’re just jealous. You hate that you can’t have me, don’t you? That’s why you’re so obsessed with me. Prince Minho who got everything he ever wanted and didn’t appreciate it. I’m the one thing you can’t have, and that infuriates you.” He licks his lips and Minho’s gaze lingers on where his tongue was.

“God, I hate you. You’re so fucking hot,” he whines, and he hates himself for it. For telling the truth. He’s wanted to bend Jisung over and fuck him stupid from the first moment he laid eyes on him. Because he wants to punish him—that’s true. But also because he wants him, more than he has ever wanted anyone. “And you’re such a slut. I should destroy you like you destroyed my family.” 

Jisung shifts in his seat, squeezing his legs together. “Nice porno dirty talk. If you’re gonna go it, do it.” 

“Yeah? Do what? You wanna suck my cock? Show me the only thing you’re good for?”Jisung blinks at him, somehow still relatively put-together. “I’ll let you insult me if it gets you off. You’re just a silly, immature little boy, after all.” His voice is husky. “I wanted to treat you good, and respect you, but you’re too much of an asshole to let me. Maybe if you get off you’ll stop acting so rotten and you’ll be sweet to me like I know you wanna.” 

Minho bites his lower lip and suppresses the urge to squeeze his stiffening dick. “Come here, and I’ll be sweet to you right now.” He pats his thigh, and Jisung acquiesces, sliding onto his lap. Minho sets his wine glass down and wraps one arm around the younger man’s waist, settling the other hand on Jisung’s hip. His fingers play about that little waist as he builds the courage to kiss his throat. When he is finally confident enough to move, it feels as though Jisung’s body is melting into his, all his resistance and tension surrendered. His throat is warm and slightly salty from trace amounts of dried sweat. Minho’s tongue traces Jisung’s Adam’s apple and his grip on the other man’s body tightens when he tries to pull away from the attention, whining in arousal. He moves to suck at the delicate skin at the base of Jisung’s throat, nicking him with his teeth, some small, ugly animal part of him wanting to mark his father’s boyfriend up for all to see.

But he resists, and pulls away before a bruise can form. Jisung shivers. “C’mon, don’t tease me. Give me a kiss. A real one.” His fingers card through Minho’s hair, long nails scraping against his scalp, soothing and encouraging. Minho looks at him, and the sight of Jisung’s pupils blown wide with lust and his cheeks colored with anticipation is almost too much. He leans in and captures that willing mouth, catching Jisung’s lower lip between his teeth, gently, and nibbling, then licking, and teasing. It is the best, most intimate kiss he has ever experienced, perhaps because this particular kiss feels like the culmination of a year’s worth of repressed emotions.

“Fuck,” Minho whispers as he finally pulls away. His head is swimming, but not because of the drink; indeed, it would take more than one and a half glasses of wine to make his head swim. Instead, it is the consequence of a combination of blood rushing southward, extreme shame and guilt at his actions, and primal, desperate arousal. He knows he is too far gone to stop himself at this point, and to his horror he finds that he really does not care. Both of his hands find their way under Jisung’s jumper, squeezing his waist before traveling further up, tickling his ribs and thumbing at his nipples, trying to elicit a gooseflesh response. He feels Jisung sigh, and hears his moan. “Does it feel good?” Jisung nods. Minho pauses before asking, “Do you want to move this to my bedroom?” 

That makes it feel so much more real for him, somehow, and he can tell Jisung feels the same way. Still, there is not much hesitation on either of their parts. “Yes,” Jisung answers, voice quiet, jumper slightly bunching about the waist. “Let’s go.” 

They do. Minho’s room is not unlike his personality. Stoic, but with surprising touches of warmth, like the well-kept, large cat tree and little pet beds. It is cozy, but not messy. Lived-in, but not quite a den. Minimalist, but with a touch of personality. 

Importantly, his bed is big, and piled high with blankets and pillows because he hates sleeping alone without anything—anyone—to press into. Jisung collapses backward onto the bed, showing his belly, making himself vulnerable. Minho stands at the edge of the bed, between the other man’s spread legs, and bows to kiss him again, planting his palms on either side of Jisung’s head, crowding him, spreading his body over his. Despite Jisung’s seeming obedience, their second kiss is a game of give-and-take, and Jisung’s hands press hard enough into Minho’s sides to make him hiss with discomfort. He pulls back. “What do you want?” 

“Why are you asking? I thought I was just a dumb slut who needed to get wrecked?” 

“Well, fuck me for caring about explicit consent. Apologies. I guess I’ll do whatever I want to you.” Despite himself, Minho blushes. His reply is much more tepid than is ideal, but it gets the point across. Jisung’s eyes are shining with something mischievous, and he totally relaxes. It is a conscious upending of their power dynamics; Minho was playing at being charge before, but now Jisung is stepping back and letting him truly take the lead. The pressure is almost too much. 

But Minho doesn’t fold.

“Take your clothes off,” he instructs, flatly, moving aside. Jisung complies, pulling his jumper off first and then sliding his jeans and briefs off, tossing all of it onto the floor. He is unashamed in his nakedness, and Minho can see why—he is gorgeous, every inch of him is beautiful from his flat stomach to his long legs and, especially, his pretty, half-hard cock. Minho leans in to kiss that stomach, his soft thighs, and finally his cock. He licks his palm and wraps his hand around the shaft, jerking him off slowly. Once he sees precome bead at the tip he brings his face nearer and smears the liquid on his lips. Jisung curses and covers his face with his hands, clearly embarrassed and so, so aroused. He licks his lips and tastes Jisung before opening his mouth and taking him inside. Minho knows his head is not particularly spectacular, but Jisung’s moans make him feel like a fucking pornstar. He hollows his cheeks and glances up at Jisung’s face, but the eye contact they make is too intense. He looks away and feels Jisung’s hand on his head, not pressing down but still urging him onward. This goes on for less than five minutes before Jisung’s thin legs are shaking the bed. Minho pulls off and away and looks at him.“What? What are you doing?” He asks. Jisung huffs in response. Minho wraps his hand around Jisung’s cock again and squeezes once. “Use your words. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” the answer comes immediately. “I don’t. I’m just not used to that. T-to getting sucked off, I mean. It’s a lot.” His voice is soft. In any other context, that would move Minho and he would take the man into his arms and tell him how much he deserves to be worshipped. 

But in this context? With this man?

“Let’s transition to something you’re undoubtedly a lot more comfortable with.” Minho stands and tries to look anything but feral as he gets his dick out. He does not even take his jeans off, and definitely not his shirt (even though a small, pathetic part of him is screaming to ditch his shirt so he can witness the delight on Jisung’s face when he sees his muscles. The adulation of twinks is a powerful drug.) 

Without being prompted, without arguing, Jisung slides off the bed and drops to his knees, eyes fixed on Minho’s erection. When he brings his cock within two inches of Jisung’s mouth, the other man sticks his tongue out like he is chasing after it. Like he can’t wait. Minho does not think before he says, “Open up. Tongue out.” And Jisung does, all the way, like he’s going to get his tonsils checked. Minho smirks and takes the sight in for a moment before tapping his cock on Jisung’s tongue, and then across his cheek. The whole time, Jisung’s mouth hangs open. 

When the actual blowjob begins, Minho is already distracted thinking about what he is going to do next. So caught up, in fact, that he can barely focus on his own pleasure. It’s not enough. Jisung is blowing him like he doesn’t want to get messy, like he’s afraid of spit and come getting on his face. 

“Hey. Hey, Jisung. Can I fuck your face?” He knows he sounds like a douchebag, but he is beyond caring. He is a douchebag. This is reprehensible behavior. 

Jisung stops and slowly pulls off. He looks nervous. “I don’t know. Won’t your mom be home in a couple of hours? I don’t want to …” he pauses. “I don’t want to look, uh, like …” Minho fills in the blank, helpfully.

“Like you got your face fucked?”

Jisung does not laugh. Instead, he offers, meekly, “Like I’m messy. But,” he finally makes eye contact with Minho, “I can always clean up after, I guess.” He leans in and licks a stripe along the side of Minho’s cock. “Use me.” 

Minho’s fingers are fish-hooking his mouth within seconds, and Jisung makes keening noises Minho has only ever heard in hentai. Absolutely unreal. Pretty, tiny, fiery, obedient, easy—Jisung is like a sex doll Minho would design for himself. He isn’t gentle, and Jisung takes it so well. He sits there on his knees, hands on his lap in loose fists, big mouth open and transformed into a pliant fuckhole. Minho doesn’t even want to blink as he is looking down at him, because the sight of his cock nearly suffocating Jisung is half what’s getting him off. When he feels his balls tighten, he pulls away, thinking it is too late. Luckily, he is able to squeeze off at the base of his cock and prevent himself from coming all over Jisung’s dazed face. 

“All right,” he pants, once he has steadied himself. “You ready to get your ass fucked?” 

“God, yes,” Jisung whines, voice weak, slowly rising to his feet again, slightly unsteady. He makes his way to the bed and immediately gets to his hands and knees, his pert little ass raised. Minho follows and situates himself behind Jisung, tugging at his leaking cock to keep himself as hard as possible. Jisung’s hole is hairless and so pink Minho suspects it has been bleached. He does not linger on that thought and its implications for Jisung’s other sex life. 

“You have the cutest little cunt,” Minho near-growls, totally in his element with this submissive bottom (he deals much less well with boys who are less submissive, but that is a shortcoming to be reflected upon at another time.) Jisung whines, again. 

“Make me wet before you do it. Really wet.” Minho thinks about snapping at him (“I’m not brand-new to gay sex, you know,”) but Jisung looks and sounds so vulnerable and cute it is impossible to get irritated at him. 

“Gimme a sec.”

Once he has procured the lube from his drawer, he settles back into place and fingers Jisung until his hole is slightly more relaxed. He followed instructions and Jisung is so slick that the KY is running down his thighs and sac. His little feet and wiggling, restlessly, and his toes are flexing in anticipation. Minho jerks himself off for a minute, again, before lining his dick up with the little, pink, fluttering hole. Ridiculously pornographic. “You ready?”

Jisung cranes his neck to look at him and nods. “Yeah. Knock me up, Daddy.” 

Minho’s face immediately heats, and his ears burn. “God, gross. Don’t call me that,” he groans, and Jisung laughs like he said it to elicit that reaction. Minho ignores him and inches in until Jisung’s ass is settled against his lap. The boy is flexible, Minho marvels, back and hips stretching while he stays planted on his elbows. Minho allows him to adjust before leaning forward and wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling Jisung into a seated position on his cock. They both moan, and Minho runs his hands up and down Jisung’s front, caressing his prominent ribs and flat stomach.  
“I wish I could feel your body, see it, you’re so hot, I wanna,” Jisung mumbles, grinding down and meeting Minho’s stunted thrusts. “Take your shirt off.” He is trying to sound demanding, Minho can tell, but it comes out more petulant than anything. Minho snickers.

“Maybe next time.”

Jisung whimpers at that but does not protest. They both know, already, that despite this being immoral and a huge mistake, there will be a next time. 

Minho tires of the small thrusts, and eventually pushes Jisung onto his stomach again, this time with his chest flush to the bed and his ass in the air. Minho stretches him with three fingers until he’s gaping, just a bit, and just because he wanted to see it. Then, he pushes back in and fucks him as relentlessly as he can—which pretty relentless, considering what good shape he is in. Jisung babbles and curses and keens, and Minho suspects some of those noises are put on for show, because there is no way his dick is that bomb, but it does stroke his ego.

When Minho switches positions so he is thrusting in at a different angle, Jisung yelps, then groans like he’s coming. “Did I hit your g-spot, Jisungie? You gonna come?” He hits it again and again, and is genuinely impressed when Jisung is able to reply, sounding slightly strangled.

“Don’t be stupid. You c-can’t have an anal orgasm. Any bottom who told you that was l-lying.”

Minho laughs again. “You’re so cute. I thought you, of all people, could come just from getting your boy pussy played with.”

“I wish,” Jisung mumbles, and Minho sees that his hand is now on his cock, pumping up and down. Minho focuses on that, and on watching his dick move in and out of Jisung’s stretched hole. Next time, he thinks, he’s going to have the little slut ride him reverse cowgirl and watch that ass bounce. He considers slapping his ass right now to get him back for earlier, but decides against it. That is probably the sort of thing that should be discussed ahead of time in the context of sex.

He is close now and, judging by by the other man’s panting, he is as well. Before he comes, he forces himself to pull out so he can spit in Jisung’s hole, a final degradation that drags a high-pitched mewl from the boy. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants like a mantra as Minho grabs his hips and finishes inside him. He comes so hard that he is momentarily stunned. By the time he comes around, Jisung is lying on his back and his hand is sticky with his own come. 

There are a million things Minho wants to say in that moment. He wants to tell Jisung how beautiful he is, how jealous he is, how much he wants him. He also wants to call him a slut, and a whore, and to kick him out of bed. In the end, he does neither. He wordlessly heads to the shower, and Jisung closes his eyes, dozing off. 

As he showers, Minho wonders if he will ever find remorse for his actions. He hopes so, and he hopes he will be forgiven, because he knows he is going to do so much worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on SKZ NSFW twitter, if you're looking for a particularly bad time.


End file.
